


“Mind if I join you?”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Kisses [31]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 15:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15440310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Continuing the series of shorts of possible first kisses between these two. Got a few ideas. Feel free to submit prompts for anything you’d like to see in the comments below or over on Tumblr at lulacat3.





	“Mind if I join you?”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Friday_25](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friday_25/gifts).



> A gift for Friday_25. Thank you for the prompt!
> 
> “"Mind if I join you?" (Robin is stood up on a date and Strike cheers her up).”

 

Strike had finished his takeaway and was just contemplating removing his prosthetic for the evening when his phone pinged to announce a text. He picked it up and swiped to open the message. It was from Ilsa.

“Get your arse down to the Cambridge. The idiot stood Robin up. Go be her knight in shining armour. x”

He pulled a face. Poor Robin. And what kind of idiot would stand up the bravest, strongest, most beautiful woman in the capital?

“On my way,” he texted back. He grabbed jacket, wallet and cigarettes and set off down the stairs.

He hurried down to the pub as quickly as his leg would allow, not wanting to miss Robin. Thank goodness she was nearby. And thank goodness Ilsa was looking out for her. He’d guessed she was doing something tonight. She’d had her hair cut the previous day and her nails had been painted a soft pink.

She was still there. She was sat at a small table near the back, scrolling on her phone, an empty wine glass next to her. He bought a pint and another glass of white and went over to her.

“Mind if I join you?”

She looked up, startled, and gave him a dazzling smile that made his heart jolt. She looked genuinely delighted to see him. He passed her her wine and sat down.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. He scanned her face as unobtrusively as he could, wondering if she’d been crying, how much wine she’d had.

“I could pretend I was passing, or that I have unprecedented detective skills,” he said. “But truthfully, Ilsa sent me.”

“Ah,” Robin glanced at her phone. “She texted me to check up on me, she insists on doing it when I’m out with someone I didn’t know.”

Strike frowned a little. “Good,” he said. “You shouldn’t be going out with random guys you don’t know.”

“He’s a friend of a friend,” Robin said, a little defensively. “And that’s why I’m here. I felt safer, closer to... the office.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed the tiny pause. She was trying not to think about her real reasons for wanting to be close to Denmark Street.

Strike had noticed the pause. Protectiveness swelled in him, a part of him fiercely glad that she felt safer closer to work, closer to him. He found himself taking her hand, unusual for him.

“You can always call me, you know,” he said, “if you have any trouble.”

She smiled and patted his hand where it lay on hers. “I know,” she said. “And thank you. Mostly I can take care of myself, but it’s nice to know you’re there.” She looked down at their joined hands again.

Feeling a little awkward now, Strike withdrew his.

“So did he cancel, or just not show up?” he asked, as casually as he could manage. He gripped his cool pint glass to try to get rid of the feeling of her warm, slender fingers.

Robin shrugged. He could see she was trying to put a brave face on it. “Just never showed up,” she said. “Idiot.” She took a large swing of wine.

Strike grinned. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “He truly is an idiot not to want to be sat here with you,” and he raised his glass to her.

She didn’t answer, but just looked down, and he had a sense he’d said the wrong thing. He was trying to work out what he’d done wrong when she put a hand over her eyes and he realised she was crying.

“Robin...” he reached out a hand again, but she buried her face in both of hers now. She didn’t make a sound, but tears seeped through her fingers.

Without really thinking about it, he moved his chair round to sit next to her and put an arm across her shoulders. “Hey,” he said gently. She leaned in to him, pressing into his chest, and he felt that swell of protectiveness again.

There was a pause while she battled for control, and then she took a deep breath and sat up, wiping her eyes. He smiled at her softly. “Better?” he asked. His eyes searched hers.

He saw the intention in her gaze a split second before she moved, but not soon enough to do anything about it. She kissed him, her lips warm and soft on his, her hand still curled in the front of his shirt. She smelled amazing, and felt so soft and vulnerable. It took every ounce of Strike’s willpower to gently disentangle himself.

“Robin...”

She looked at him searchingly for a moment and then flushed with embarrassment, her mouth setting into a hard line.

“Sorry,” she said stiffly, and picked up her bag and coat. “I should go.”

“Robin, wait...”

But she was on her way out. Strike stood as quickly as he could and followed. She was out the door before he could get to her and marching down the street. He followed a little way, but he had no hope of keeping up with her brisk pace for very long.

“Robin, that’s not fair,” he called, and her stride faltered, her innate good nature prevailing as always. She stopped, and reluctantly turned back towards him. Her cheeks were still flaming, her eyes bright.

Strike caught up with her. “Robin, I’m sorry. I just... You’re vulnerable, and you’ve been drinking, and I didn’t want you to do something you’d regret.”

She raised her chin and looked at him challengingly. “Why would I regret it?”

That floored him. He stood and gaped for a moment, uncertain what to say. “Well,” he began. “You’ve just been stood up, you’re upset...”

She snorted. “I’m not upset because I’ve been stood up,” she said. “Okay, well, maybe a little. But that’s not why I was crying. And that was only my second glass of wine, so I’m not pissed.”

Strike hesitated again, still feeling like he was walking on eggshells. “So what...?”

Robin sighed, her anger gone suddenly. “You’re half right,” she said. “It’s not nice to be stood up, it knocked my ego and I’m feeling vulnerable, and Ilsa was sweet over text and then you were saying such kind things and it just made me cry a bit.”

She raised her chin again, ever strong. Her eyes searched his, so cool and blue-grey. “But I wasn’t confused, or needy or whatever. Cormoran, I wanted to kiss you. But I’m sorry you don’t...”

He stopped her words with his mouth, kissing her with fierce longing, so suddenly that she squeaked a little. But she was pressing closer to him at once, arms around his neck, kissing him back eagerly. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her and kissed her, his head swimming.

Finally he drew back, trembling a little. “Don’t ever think that I don’t want to kiss you,” he said hoarsely. “I was trying to be a good friend.”

She smiled shakily. “I know,” she said. “But I prefer this.” And she kissed him again.

 

 


End file.
